In The Pines
by TurtlesAreFast
Summary: A woman implores the Templars for her family's sake; little by little, being dragged into the chaos of the revolutionary war seems imminent. All the while, she's trying to keep her candle burning by stopping whatever is hindering her motives. Alas, the road to hell is paved with good intentions and soon a series of events she had never wished for is brought to light. OC/Connor. AU.
1. Decision making 101

CHAPTER ONE:

Decision making 101

* * *

"Are you unwed, Miss White?"

"Quite so." She replied offhandedly, distracted by the looming form of a man heading up the stairs.

_Damn_, Jane thought,_ that's not_ _the_ _one._ The one before that hadn't been him either. In fact, she had been waiting for five whole days and he had yet to appear.

None had matched the description. Tall, muscular, dark hair - none, nil, zéro. One would think that Boston, with it's almost overwhelmingly multicultural citizens, would offer a bit more diversity. Or that at least someone within the tavern's patrons would fit the description.  
Yet no one had caught her eye.

By the third night, she had debated asking the barkeep or a pair of regulars if they knew who she meant. Reluctance had risen within her whenever she tried to, and she had just settled for getting another drink. Back in London, Greg had stressed how much of a enigmatic type her goal was.

"Much like you, eh." He had teased, and she had rolled her eyes. Greg, or Georges as was his real name, was her favourite cousin out of the whole bunch; meeting him in London had more or less been a coincident, as he was just about to leave as she arrived. Without him, she'd still be lost in the misty burrows of London. He had helped her; tipping off some _informateurs_, ensuring that she'd get any sort of useful information before anyone else.

It had given her a lead on her task and never before had she been so thankful for her freckled, ginger cousin. Greg had always been the one for talking - he was the life of every event. He was handsome, charismatic and efficient - but still a frenchman living in London. He had made do with little means - as he did with everything. The little details Jane had been able to hand her cousin had proved enough for him to do his job, competent as he was.

Truly, she was almost jealous that he had accomplished more work in a fortnight than she had in three months.

The man in front of her coughed in surprise at her statement, bringing her back to her senses. "A fine lady like you would have suitors all around, I imagine."

"Well, seeing as I'm too lowborn for the nobles, and too highborn for the commoners, I've had some difficulties in the martial area."She shrugged, taking a sip from her tankard, nose scrunching at the taste. One thing was sure - the wine in the colonies tasted like piss.

Her company was also of the same merit - after a long day in the humid air of Boston, all she wanted was a glass of rosé as her company while she sat there, waiting for the man that never seemed to arrive.

Good wine and a quiet place to mind my own business, she had told herself earlier that day.

She had gotten neither.

Peter Dietrich was the name of the man who invaded her space uninvited, making himself rather comfortable where he was sitting across form her with his legs spread wide and leaned back posture. He was red around the cheeks, a tankard of ale in his hands and his tricorn hat laying on the table, eyes droopy and laughter merry.

Ever since her first evening spent at the tavern he had decided to interrupt her work. After a couple of ales she had found him merry company - amiable, if a bit forthright - and let him stick around. He was apparently only in Boston to visit some relatives, helping them get settled in, he had said, though Jane thought he spent an unusual amount of time at a tavern if his business regarded his family.

Today, he had come while she was writing to her aunt and father. Sooner or later she would have to tell them where she was - there was little they could do while they were on the other side of the Atlantic anyways, no matter how severe the threat of getting flogged was.

Which, in the end, was pretty severe.

He drummed his fingers against the wooden surface as he gave her one of his merriest laughs at her assessment.

"I'm sure we can manage that somehow. Were in the colonies - everybody's equal! Nobles and commoners don't exist here, lass." He beamed at her.

He could've been comely, Jane noted. Had it not been for his crooked nose and unshaven face and that slightly putrid stench that was only barely covered by the smell of ale on him.

Still, the man smiled at her. "You left the Three Estates back home with your _escargot_."

"Of course, Mr Dietrich." She drawled, sipping the wine once again and deciding to ignore his teasing. It would, after all, be a waste to not drink the wine - she had paid for it with her already running-low funds. "This is the land of the free." She added, awkwardly.

_If money can buy you freedom_, Jane thought. Still, she listened as Dietrich spoke about his fathers involvement with some well-known trading partner. Truth be told, the way the colonies ticked was an awful noise.

The same way that Europe did, nonetheless. It was an ugly truth - slavery, no doubt, and the ticking would go on for many years. Yet Dietrich was speaking of it as if it had been deconstructed, even if the sound still rang in Europe. As if promises of cordial treatment would be of any help to the slaves she'd seen in the harbour as she arrived. As if words of kindness and fairness would take them back home or even give them means to make free men and women of themselves.

She wanted to shake her head and tut her tongue at him, to correct him and let him know his company was no longer enjoyed or needed, and that she would indeed return to her escargot soon.

Instead, she simpered, the epitome of curtesy as her tablesharer kept babbling. He _had_ promised he'd buy the next round of drinks.

Truth be told, she hadn't been completely lying when she told him she couldn't find the right sort of a man - there had been suitors back home, and he seemed to be the first one while she was in Boston. Though there was no proper use in looking for a possible suitor; it had been caring and bearing children that had kept her sisters from going in her place and whatever God or any other man wanted her belly wasn't ready for a child.

"You should met him, my old man," Dietrich said, giving a slight wave until a new tankard of ale was at his side, "You'd like him. He's been weak for the french ever since they tried to chase the brits away. Be sure to treat ya right if you came by."

Jane couldn't help but laugh - at his familiarness or his words she wasn't sure. "I'm sure there's more reason than that."

"Aye, maybe there is. I'd still like to take you though." He said, eyes roaming over her.

She peaked at him through her lashes, giving a coy smile. "One day maybe."

He grinned and snickered at her. "You french are all the same."

Without missing a beat Jane replied: "Yes, beautiful, strong and merry, the whole bunch of us. No wonder you can't keep your eyes to yourself."

She snickered and the man flushed, trying to stammer a reply.

A man emerged from outdoors.

Quickly, her attention sifted from the beaming man opposite her to the one heading up the stairs hurriedly. She narrowed her eyes at the newcomer; his hair was dark, but greying, shoulders broad and his clothes too fancy to belong inside this bourgeois place.

Gaze shifting to the two owners tittering about the other tables she watched the closely; they were serving patrons and chit-chatting with each and every one of them. As if they had not seemed to notice the tall, seemingly out of place, man.

_A regular then_, she thought, and a rush of adrenaline filled her at the prospect of it being him.

Another hasty look at him - the deep blue clothes with golden lining, the sword by his hip, and foremost, the ring on his finger - and she knew it was him.

On the parchment before her she scrawled her signature in all haste, blowing on the ink before rolling the parchment together, probably staining it - but it mattered not. She had found him - finally. After almost five months spent on the road and sea she was overcome with joy, her goal seemingly inching towards herself little by little.

Suddenly, the road home didn't seem too long.

Jane's gaze rose again, only to find the fine clad man staring brazenly at her.

A silent, meaningful gesture that was solely meant for her was all he granted her. He was waiting.

Despite the chill that was sent through her body, she rose unhesitatingly from her seat, eyes frozen on the man. "I'm afraid I must bid you a good evening, Mr Dietrich."

Dietrich blinked furiously, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "What? You going after him?"

"_Oui_? Who is he?" She dragged her gaze from the man to look back at Dietrich. "You know him?"

Dietrich pursed his lips, waving an exaggerated hand in the air. "That there is Haytham Kenway. He's always here when he's in Boston, lurking about on the upper floors together with that Charles fellow." The scorn in his voice made her raise a brow.

"Then I believe I indeed am going after him." Jane hummed, moving away from their secluded table. He'd need to pay for her drink some other time.

To her, it had seemed impossible for anyone to spot them from this far back; he had, this Kenway fellow, though, and he was looking at her with stern eyes, hands clasped behind his back as she approached the stairway.

"Will you be back?" Dietrich asked quietly. He sounded so desperately hopeful that the smile on her face turned genuine, the adrenaline rush still making her blood pump.

"Of course, Mr Dietrich."

He raised the tankard her way with a hearty laugh. "See ya, lass!"

* * *

The girl had turned so rigid it was almost laughable. Now, she approached him slowly, pulling the hem off her dress up slightly as she passed the tavern's others patrons.

Noticing her, or, for that matter, hearing her and her friend mentioning his name hadn't been a hard task at all. Despite sitting back in the furthest corner and his greying age his senses were still honed from years of training. One did not become a Grand Master through sheer luck or conviction. Skills were always necessary.

High cheekbones framed her face, an equally high nose giving her the appearance of something so aristocratic that he wouldn't be surprised if she belonged in one of the large white mansions on Beacon Hill. _Out of her element, eh?_ He thought, watching as she frowned when a patron tried to pull her into his lap.

It wasn't unusual that people wanted to speak to him; rather the opposite in fact. There hadn't been a day where someone didn't want something out of him - yet this reached a newer level of intimacy. No one reached him here, at the Green Dragon. All who did were his Templars brothers.

That she had reached him here however, only served to make his interest in what she wanted more pronounced.

Where there more important things at hand? Unfortunately. William Johnson was dead and the past had come back to haunt him once again.

Together with that knowledge, and a rather sour day to begin with, the day was not going well at all, to be frank. A distraction would suit him well.

Nonetheless, the hardest, if not the most important, part was yet to come. Which meant taking care of Thomas Hickey.

The poor boy was probably heartbroken - maybe even more so than Haytham himself was, or even he had been back in the day at Bergen op Zoom where Braddock had shown his true colours. It was no secret that Johnson favoured Thomas, going as far as to make him part of his own personal guard. And the lad returned that friendship; in fact, he was grateful, both to William and Haytham for the opportunities they had allowed him.

That he had been there that day, almost a fortnight ago, made the whole thing worse. He'd been inside, sitting with Johnson's little consort Molly, prepared to celebrate once the deal had been brokered.

No such thing had happened. And the poor lad had been the one who found the body, in the end.

The more Haytham thought of it, the more he realised he needed a drink.

That, however, will have to wait, he thought as the girl finally reached him.

With her eyes peeking up at him from where she stood, she spoke in a low voice: "Are you Haytham Kenway?"

"Indeed." Didn't the lad at her table confirm that for her?

She started, voice nothing but a mere stammer. "I have some pressing matters to discuss with you, Master Kenway."

"And I have some pressing matters to attend to," He said, shortly, only adding; "If you may." as he continued up the stairs.

Her voice reached his ears again as when he had reached the second flight of stairs.

"May the father of understanding guide us."

The age old saying of the templars being spoken so quietly stopped him from advancing any further.

Good. This might actually be worth the time.

It had been awhile since anyone but his brothers had used that saying. It was something that concluded most of their meetings, that they ended correspondence with and that they got past each other's guards with. He hadn't seen any of them in a while. Not even Charles had been available, which was about as uncommon as this girl using that particular saying.

Most believe the assassin's and templars to be some old myth. Mostly, the colonial assassin's now were nothing but a myth, considering how he and his brothers had eradicated them from this soil. Yet the threat still remained - and vigilance was always a virtue. The muscles in his arm flexed. He was still fast, despite all these years. If she was anything but what she made herself look like, he would be ready.

For now his brothers and his drink would have to wait.

Heel turning slowly, he replied. "Go on."

Throwing an anxious glance towards the table she had previously been seated at, she said: "It would be best if we discussed this elsewhere."

"Certainly." Haytham tersely said with a short nod.

"Follow me." She said, an unsteady smile forming on her face. Whipping around, she left through the front entrance swiftly, not even stopping to see if he followed or not. He did, albeit a bit slower, stopping to throw a glance back at the table where she'd formerly been seated. He was met by a pair of narrowing eyes.

The girl stood outside, tapping her foot against the cobblestones as he got outside. When she heard him, she took ahold of his arm, hooking it together with her own at the elbow. "Walk with me."

Going by her dress and appearance she was wealthy, someone from his own societal class even, and the way she held herself and spoke - a soft, London accent ringing through her words, lighter than his own - told him more about her than she needed to know. Nevertheless, she seemed more at ease now, the panicked deer look having left her eyes, replaced with something tranquil.

Leading the way towards the busier parts of Boston, the girl kept quiet. Town criers stood all about, people surrounding them and listening intently, the mess his own son had caused with throwing all of Johnson's tea overboard still a fresh piece to report.

What a sordid affair that had been - one that should've told him how careful he needed to be. Now, Johnson was dead because of it, his influence and ringing irish accent gone with him. A true shame - even worse than Braddock's untimely change of heart, even.

Finally, she spoke, pulling her gaze from the street in front of them: "I'm here to offer coin and information for you and your brother's services."

Had she not said it with such conviction he would've thought she was jesting. Haytham's eyes narrowed. He had seen enough years to tell when someone was lying - she was not.

"We're not for sale." Haytham replied shortly.

"Well, according to a certain Master Abbott you are." She replied, offhandedly, her grip on his arm tightening.

The mention of his name made his lip curl with slight anger. The british Grand Master could've at least warned him of what he was sening his way. Now he'd have to deal with either a weeping or crazed woman by the end of his conversation.

Woman? No - _girl_.

It was true - she wasn't more than a girl trying to act older than she truly was, he noted as he gave her a once over. She had stricken him as older when he first laid his eyes on her. Now, however, he perceived her; her cheeks were rosy in such a way that only youth could explain it, her lips plump and still full if a smile tugged at her lips and the bust beneath her dress still firm. Walking beside one another, they looked more like father and daughter than man and wife.

"What do you propose?" He finally said. She was a girl - a girl who spoke of the Order so lightheartedly, as if the true meaning of her words never struck a cord with her. He wanted to know what she had to say - even if it was some inane, silly thing coming from a lass with her head too high up in the clouds. It would serve as a distraction to get away from the unsavoury affair that was Thomas Hickey and rum.

The tapping of their shoes could be heard now, the crowd thinning until it was just them and some redcoats patrolling the streets.

"Something completely beneficial for both me and your Order," She said directly, nose crinkling slightly as they reached the harbour. The air was filled with salt and the putrid stench of seaweed. "You see, I have a little problem concerning some assassins back home. Killing two birds with one stone is always in ones interest, is it not?"

"Elaborate." Haytham rejoined with a raised brow. The girl had an earnest look on her face; one that reminded him of how Charles had greeted him in this very city's harbour so many years ago.

"My father is Pascal Artois. But my mother is not Lady Artois. I'm a bastard, if anything." She said nonchalantly. The words were uttered so naturally and with such ease that he could almost feel sorry for the girl.

Illegitimate children were usually not treated well. It wasn't an uncommon or peculiar thing - not at all, and Haytham himself had his own, out of wedlock son. Bastards were born from nights of passion with fishermen's wives or whores - and like passionate nights they were kept away from the homes of nobles, left for their mothers to take care of them alone, completely unknown or unwanted.

Set eyes met his, and within a moment he cursed himself for how could he not have seen it before. It was subtle, but still there after years of grooming. A slight french accent, the soft hands, the deep, grey eyes and thick brows.

_Of course_, Haytham thought, _of course he's your father._

Him being Pascal Artois, the man who so _valiantly_ helped the Order.

"I'm familiar with your father, Miss Artois." Haytham said, sighing. He had met the man in Paris, during his Templar adept days with Birch, on the hunt for Jennifer. Haytham remembered him well - the thin, sly eyes and large nostrils that flared even larger whenever he opened that big mouth of his. Haytham had neither liked nor trusted him.

"You're not the only one who knows his name. He's rather influential back home. And please, call me Jane White while in the colonies," Her voice turned to a whisper, "Many don't like the french - or our accents." She pointed towards some redcoats. "Heard they flogged some poor boy from Quebec a few days ago simply because he spoke french. _Épouvantable_!"

"Quiet so." He replied, unfathomably. But not unexpected.

"Indeed, indeed. And terrible is just the word for what might happen to my father if the assassin's aren't stopped." Slowly, her voice ebbing lower, she added: "Do you know why they're after him?"

He gave her a look, one that was stern and inquiring. "They have every reason to want him dead for what he did."

"_Oui, oui_," She waved her free hand in dismissal, "And my father lives behind high castle walls. Walls that will not protect him. They will get him."

He could hear the frustration in her voice, and simply nodded. Her words were true; rarely was it that assassin's were stopped without some sort of Templar involvement.

"Inconspicuous is not a trait I would use to describe my father. But up until eight months ago, those assassin's weren't even looking for him. They weren't even concerned until a man by the name of Ruben Evans was killed. Ever since, they've been after him." The woe in her words were accompanied by a shake of her head.

Ruben Evans? Haytham raised a brow. Is that bastard finally dead, after all these years? If it was thanks to Pascal he would send him a card of gratitude; that man had been the cause of more trouble than any other assassin in Europe for the last five decades.

She paused for a moment. Then the hold on his arm tightening, and she stared up at him, eyes glistening. "The lives of everyone I know are in danger because of this mess."

A boiling sort of annoyance rose within him. It had been a waste of time after all. "Is that why you're here, girl? To try and persuade me into helping your family?"

She looked he straight in the eyes. They were set eyes - strong and vivid, telling and foreboding. "My father sent me letters detailing their methods. I would not wish for such things on my worse enemy. Even less on my own family."

"It might as well be as easy as your father lying to you, Miss White. Men do not tell their daughters everything." Haytham stated. It was a truth he had learnt long ago - do not tell anyone everything you know.

She laughed. "Do you have a daughter, sir?" His face must've given her the answer she wanted, because she continued on with only a slight tilt of her head. "Then how would you know? If that's what you believe then you don't know my father half as well as you think."

The gulls on the piers shrieked loudly, flying down against the sea to catch fish. The two of them had come to a stop. They stood on the furthest end of a wooden pier, a redcoat patrolling not very far from them.

A ship sailed into the bay - mast tall and erected, the flag of the loyalists swaying high. It was rations, surely - gunpowder and bullets for the soldiers to send into other soldiers. The sun was already beginning to set - a ambivalent mix of red and orange filling the sky and reflecting in the sea.

"But I do know men. And I do know them. They are assassins." Haytham took a step forward, his words sour and coated in truth. "Ones that will not settle so easily."

He had learnt that the hard way. The scars on his body showed it and the images in his mind knew it. Who would've thought that wiping out a small portion of colonial assassin would have been such a sordid business?

She waved a dismissive hand. "It's all just craven methods. It's not a worthy way to die, or to live with that threat hanging above oneself."

"I should know," Haytham replied, a single brow of incredulity raised. "I have."

Her eyes went wide, stammering apologies until he held up a hand, stopping her. That kept her quiet for a moment while his mind reeled at the acquired information. Her eyes turned to the vast sea, teeth at her lips.

When she spoke again, it was despondent and low. "I left for London because my father begged me to. There I gathered information and one day, Abbott came to meet me. How he knew who I was, or what I had been up to, I had no idea. But he directed me to you, across the sea."

_That bloody bastard_, Haytham thought as rubbed the bridge of his nose. Was he really leaving this mess to him? _Obviously_, he thought sourly, lip curling into something of a snarl. "And now you're here."

"And now I'm here." She repeated, eyes still not meeting his. "With a proposal, nonetheless. You help me get rid of the assassin's after my father and you get their corpses and control over Europe. Is that not what you want? Control?"

Haytham gave her a long, hard look. "Should I not comply?"

"_Un malheur ne vient jamais seul_." Shrugging, a smile danced on her lips as her eyes met his. "Misfortune never arrives alone. I'll have no choice but to withhold information, and a chance for you to redeem yourself."

"There's nothing to redeem, Miss White," He said, a scorn already forming on his formerly placid face as he took a step forward, looming over the girl, "Your father betrayed the principles of his people. He's facing the consequences of his actions."

Jane did not look bothered by his words. "Our integrity sells for so little."

"Yet a price is still always-"

Without warning, steps echoed behind them. A redcoat passed them and they fell silent. Once the oaf loitered off, she spoke again, voice hasty and desperate.

"I don't understand, Master Kenway." She started, "I'm but a mere girl giving you a profitable offer. My father lives - and you get to clean up some assassin's corpses."

Haytham raised a brow. "You're awfully caring for a bastard."

Giving a chuckle, she replied: "I don't often speak kindly of my father. But I'm not completely heartless. Neither are you, I hope. I don't wish to see my father dead."

Truly, she was nothing but a girl. Despite her words and all the coin she could get from her father in France, there was nothing compelling him into giving her what she wanted. It wasn't the often that the Order gave aid to anyone - it cost money, time and men that could be spent on other much more important matters.

Such as making sure no other's of his closets Templar brothers were stabbed to an inch of their life.

"You've done yourself a disservice in coming here, Miss White." Said Haytham lightly.

Slowly, her eyes widened as she stared at him. The wind blew by, tugging at a few of her loose hairs, sending them over her face and almost covering the hard gaze she was giving him. "

She stared at him, eyes widening slowly. The wind tugged at a few loose hairs, sending them over her face, covering the hard gaze she was holding him with. "You can't be serious."

"Take what money you have left and return to France. You won't find any solace for you father here."

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then laughter erupted from her throat, but it sounded more like a chortled gasp of disbelief. "But Abbott-"

"Abbott is the Grand Master of the british branch." He stated, as simply and clearly as one could. He took a step away from the girl, then another. The soles of his boots resonated against the planks of the pier.

"He said you would agree." She called after him. "These are the colonies- b-british colonies! He-"

Without stopping, Haytham called back: "He lied."

"Sir, please. What I'm suggesting is beneficial to both of us."

Haytham sucked in air through his teeth. "You gave me everything I needed to know. I can see to my _problems_ without even having to accept your coin."

She pleaded some more, frustration clear in her voice.

_His problems_. Contacting Abbott and questioning his sanity, more or less. What had he been thinking, sending a girl with such a remediable problem across the Atlantic? Artois hadn't been relevant in almost two decades now, and even before that he'd been nothing but a spy and intermediary.

He interrupted her string of please and sir's: "The Templar order is not an order of some mercenaries to be bought and used when needed."

She followed after him as he picked up his former pace, pulling up the hem of her dress as to not fall. "My father supports your vision! Would you just let one of your own die?"

"Yes." He retorted curtly.

She groaned, stopping and dragging a hand over her face in frustration. "You're making this incredibly hard."

Haytham halted, throwing a look back at her. "Are you done? Or do you persist on taking up more of my time?"

"Why won't you do something? I-I've done everything according to the book - please, I'll do anything. I'll work, I'll spy. Anything." She sniffed this time, and Haytham rolled his eyes, silently cursing women for retorting to tears whenever matters didn't go their way.

"I have no use for you." What could she do? Her hands were soft - they had never seen a days work in their life. She moved like a proper lady from Europe, curtsies and smiles plenty but with little to nothing behind big, shining eyes. And the same blood as her father's were in her veins - her eyes could be just as sly and cunning as his.

"Please - there must be something I can do." She stood there, frowning and eyes more sad than crossed. But there were no tears, despite her increasing sniffs.

"Believe me when I tell you there's not." His tone reached a point of clemency. "You're not the first to come begging for help."

"Y-you've turned down everyone else?"

He began walking again, letting out a frustrated breath through his nose. Within seconds she stood before him, blocking his path.

"What can I do to change your mind?" Her hands were clutched into fists and her lip chewed, grey eyes unwavering in an almost buoyant way.

"You haven't turned down everyone," She assessed confidently, back straightening as she one of her hands bundled in her dress, the tendons in her hands turning white. "Tell me what I need to do."

Haytham clicked his tongue, taking a step to the side. As he passed her, he simply said: "Make this beneficial."

She did not follow.

* * *

Haytham was at loss for words.

Coming back from his talk with Miss White, he had returned to the more pressing matters, the ones that would test his already thinning patience.

Hickey, who by no means had been sober when he reentered the Green Dragon, was as loud as ever when he had returned to the Green Dragon, demanding that whoever killed Johnson be put to rest. "Dead an' buried!" He had said, taking a swing from a bottle of rum before detailing exactly how the assassin was to reach the state of dead that he pleased.

Both Charles and Benjamin had been cross with the boy. Neither Pitcairn nor himself had been present at their first meeting - one that had taken place several days before. Old wounds and slights had risen once again; simple arguments escalated. It wasn't easy - no one of the three templars held love for each other; and leaving them together for an extended period of time only brought out the worst of the cooperative powers.

All were cross, sour and drunk when he had reached them.

He had cursed himself for speaking with the girl after that, but soon forgot about that when Johnson became the topic of discussion. It was odd, Haytham reckoned, he did not feel especially inclined to mourn over Johnson. It was a loss, sure, but he did not miss the man's company as he would've ten years ago, or even five. Hickey was doing enough mourning for the lot of them, anyways.

It was first after order had been restored to his band of brothers that he had confided in Charles about Miss White. Earnest as he was - and as clever - Charles promised to investigate, despite never having heard the name Pascal Artois before. It mattered little, Haytham supposed, but he still asked Church about it too. The doctor didn't have a clue - and Haytham didn't expect Thomas would for that matter. Not that he had been in a sober enough state to even be suitable for questioning but that's beside the point.

And when Charles suggested that they send the oaf out to search her room - his drink, grief and complete obliviousness had been their motivation. That, plus the fact that Thomas Hickey was one of the more effective types.

With with and a talent for getting in and out of trouble he had connections all over Boston and New York. Born and raised in London, he had connections there too - and if he didn't know some whore who fucked noblemen then he knew the nobleman himself. High or low - Thomas had contacts. Haytham himself was a testament to that; one that had gotten him out of minor trouble time and time again.

With that in mind, they sent him out to get information on a certain Jane White in Boston.

Time came and went until a week passed. Disappointingly, Hickey returned empty handed. Not even a journal or an unfinished letter laid around for the taking. And the man Haytham had seen her in the company of had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth.

Sighing to himself as he finished a sentence in his journal, Haytham reclined in his seat. She was indeed irksome, this Jane White.

Both Church and Pitcairn knew of her now, and not even the old general recognised her father's name. The Grand Master had debated sending Abbott a letter regarding her ever since that day on the pier, wanting to confirm or disregard her story. How she'd managed to persuade Abbott, or even get close enough to him to speak with him, made little to no rational sense. Yet something had stopped him every time his quill touched parchment.

Simply leaving for New York was always an option; leaving the girl to pick up whatever scraps she had and return to France with nothing but foul words and a death sentence for her father. His days in Boston were numbered anyways. The sheer number of tasks had begun to diminish already and soon Haytham would need to return to New York. The brilliance of it all had, of course, been overshadowed by one simple fact.

She was willing to sail over an ocean to reach him. Having her leave him alone would not be that easy.

Nonetheless, her obstinate ways wasn't what had caused his bewilderment.

It was her, climbing in through his window one night, dressed in breeches and a tricorn hat sloppily hiding her brown tresses from falling down and framing her face. He had been alerted by a knock, which he had thought came from the door at first, but then the window had pushed open. She had swung her legs over the railing, and he hadn't recognised her until she spoke.

"Good evening Kenway. Made up your mind yet?" Jane asked, voice brimming with something mischievous.

Catching sight of the glance of utter vexation he sent her, she shrugged. "Guess not." She said, swinging her feet over the ledge and stepping inside the room.

Setting down his quill in the ink bottle, Haytham leaned back. Luckily, this was his study, not his own private chambers or drawing room, where servants would pass more frequently. Most of the time, only himself and books inhabited this room - and there was not much of importance in this room solely.

"Why are you here?" He clasped his fingers together, the chill the wide open window let in a mild annoyance compared to the woman rummaging through his bookcase. Most momentous correspondence wasn't kept here, but the way she was making herself at home bothered him.

"You know, I was trying to give you a hint just moments ago, but I guess you didn't quiet catch that." She retorted, not even stoping her fiddling.

"The sooner you tell me the sooner you can leave." He stated plainly. He didn't keep guards around. Save for a stableboy and an old lady with half her teeth missing no one lived in the house but him. Other servants came and went as the sun rose and set. Uninvited company, and of her age, was certainly not common in his household nowadays.

She pulled a book out of its rightful spot in between all the others. Barely had she flipped through it before it was smacked together again, her back straightening as she whipped around.

She had barely flipped through it before she smacked it together, her back straightening as she whipped around. The candles gave her eyes and eerie glow, and it intensified as she held up a finger, wiggling it ever so slightly. "I know what you did. All those years ago. You killed Miko."

Her accusatory tone was too keen for his liking. "It matters little now." Haytham said dissuasively.

What he disliked even more was her sudden smile at his words. A scowl settled on his face.

Was this truly the girl that had been sniffling, begging for him to take her in and to help her just a week ago? The scowl on his face deepened, and he was sure he could've give Jennifer a run for her money with how much his brows creased nowadays.

She let out a huff of indignation, tapping a sole finger against her chin. Jane approached the desk.

"Does it not bother you though? Your little plots being revealed one after one by no one else than a girl." She fluttered her lashes at him, placing the book on the desk. "You're rather... transparent."

He had gotten rid of a pest that night. There was nothing to be ashamed of. Yet, a slow, seething annoyance bumbled up from within, and Haytham mentally made a note of sending someone to clean up whatever dirt might be left in his old home country. He had left it in all haste that day, but he was sure no one knew; Birch had made sure of that.

...Hadn't he?

There was still that boy - the one had silence with a single finger and a hush after he killed his old foe. It had just been a boy, he told himself, he hadn't done anything. Petrified and completely still he had been even though he had seen, had known. After all, Haytham himself couldn't have been much older than that boy when he made his first kill.

With recent events still fresh in mind - and certainly right before his very eyes - he began having second thoughts about the quality of the clean up Birch had conducted.

"Says the girl who was begging for my help a few days ago." Haytham retorted swiftly.

The girl simply shrugged, not bothered by his insult or the annoyance his voice held. "I know the methods that all of this was brought to light by. Let me help you cover your tracks more efficiently." She leaned forward, placing the book between them before resting both her palms against the polished desk surface opposite him.

"There's nothing stopping me from just taking that information from you, right now, right here." He gestured about the room, eyes not leaving hers. "You're in my home."

"_Oui_. You make a point. But why haven't you then?" Jane inquired, tilting her head. "Frankly, I think you're interested. And there's always the possibility of me lying and sending you into a deathtrap."

"Of course." He replied sardonically, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. He was getting too old for this.

"Sullenness doesn't become you, Kenway. Want to know a little truth? It took me months to find out enough to even decide where my next trip was going. You did a good job." Jane admitted, smile turning sly. "Just not good enough."

Wasn't she a prize. It wasn't a thing that Haytham enjoyed - her stubbornness was grating, to say the least. Yet, there was something about her that struck a cord - maybe it was just the hour of the evening, or the whiskey he had drunken previously, or even how he had reminiscing about her before - but the girl reminded him of Jennifer. The Jennifer of back in the day, who had come running out of rooms with a deep scowl and red eyes at the prospected of marriage, who had hated him for not being allowed the same upbringing as himself.

Had she been allowed weapons training instead of needlework, well; it would've made the whole ordeal less spectacular, he reckoned. His alone time with his father might've lost all its charm. Yet somehow the prospect of a weapons trained Jennifer - scowl replaced with a smile, needle replaced with a sword. It was all too good to be true.

He coughed slightly, making a mental note to write to Jennifer soon and to let out some pent up nostalgia, before snapping out of his own thoughts. "Pestering me won't do you any good."

"I'd make an asset. Is that so hard to believe?" Jane huffed, brows narrowing as she caught sight of his raised brows. She crossed her arms over her chest. "I can fence. I speak four languages fluently. The locals take to me like flies to honey."

Two truths and a lie. A little bit a of truth indeed. Haytham wondered which one's were true, and which one was false. Casually he leaned back in his chair, idly laying a hand on his hat on the desk. One that was similar to the one she was wearing. In fact, she looked like a boy in that outfit of hers. She was already a slender girl, lithe limbs and narrow face only playing to her favour when she dressed in somber, male colours.

"Are you often like this?"

"Suave and intelligent? Always."

"This." He gestured all over her, ignoring her. "Dressed like a man."

"When it suits me. It's not proper for a lady to be walking about this time of the night." She tugged at the dark waistcoat. "It keeps the drunks away and no one looks twice if I carry a sword."

Reminiscing, his thoughts wandered to Hickey. Back in the day he had been so green he pissed grass and foulmouthed as few. Once he warmed up though, he stayed that way; grateful and amiable.

Maybe he had misjudged her. Upon closer inspection her hands weren't as soft and ladylike as he remembered them. There was dirt underneath each nail, and pale pinkish scars running along her fingers. She moved nimbly, form slender and light. And her eyes - they weren't vacant, but showed the first layer of something much larger.

Here's a little bit of truth: Haytham Kenway is no fool. Ambitions may blind one - make one forget what's real and true in that breathing moment. A hunger for power may make on cruel and greedy, and faith and devotion in one's own ideology might distort the senses until unrecognisable. No more could be needed to dilute ones mind until all it was lost, bend beyond imagination.

Here's another truth: Haytham Kenway possessed all of these qualities - and never did he let a potential investment that may grant more of these deadly poisons slip away.

_Oh_, Haytham thought, an elusive shining in his eyes as the girl before him scowled, _what an investment indeed_.

* * *

_Zéro_ - zero.

_Escargot_ - a dish of cooked land snails, commonly served as an appetiser in France.

_Épouvantable_ - terrible.

_Un malheur ne vient jamais seul_ - literally what she says right after: "misfortune never arrives alone", but more idiomatically translated as "when it rains, it pours."

And, of course: _Oui_ - yes.

There's also a reference to a very well known movie in there somewhere - first person to spot it gets nothing but the honours of knowing too much about pop culture.

That's all for this french lesson, I suppose. Tune in for the next chapter where it'll probably be even more french and more dialogue!


	2. Many maniacs mounted

CHAPTER TWO:

Many maniacs mounted

* * *

One month into her stay in the colonies Jane White started wondering what the hell she was doing.

Since that night when Haytham had agreed to her proposal - for a hefty sum of money and some in-depth information - there had barely been a trace of him. Hell, she had barely seen anyone for the past fourteen days. The former was a bit peculiar though, as she was _technically_ living in his house.

The Grand Master had offered her a room for some petty sum and she had readily accepted. It was a large house - and there was without a doubt room for both her and even more if he would've liked it so.

Surrounded by a high, red brick wall and a large garden in the very back, the three-story building made quiet a feat in outer parts of Boston. The most magnificent detail was the garden however; there was a large arrangement of roses all about, and large oaks and birches that she guessed had already stood rooted in the ground when the house was built.

The servants were all of the same merit; the quiet kind. Only one of them actually lived in the house. It was something that Jane supposed was a nice thing. She practically had the whole house to herself once afternoon tea was served. There was no need for her to feel lonely; and in fact, she never did during her stay at the Grand Master's house.

The first room she had ever entered in the house was also the room where she spent most of her time in. The study, or the library, as she called it, was immense. Bookcases filled all the walls except for the occasional tapestry hanging on the walls. It was there that she found a sort of solitude - the books providing most of the company she needed.

It was the beginning of the summer now, and she liked to sit outside with a book, underneath the canopy of the old trees. The house was located just outside of Boston, the bustling life of the city wasn't heard this far out, and with no close by neighbours or a main road passing by, travellers and visitors were scarce.

It had taken her a while to find out where Kenway lived, actually, since not many seemed to know, or care for that matter. When she did find it though, she had been surprised at the lack of guards and dogs. There had been one lone stableboy, but he had neither heard nor seen her as she crept up the walls, climbing into the only room that had been lit so late that evening.

Now, as the days started to dull and the amount of enjoyable books started to diminished she started to miss Boston. Before Haytham left - to god knows where, mind you - Haytham had told her to stay put. Whatever that elusive choice of wording meant she wasn't sure, but she had decided to stay within the house grounds.

It was then that she had started to miss the life Boston brought along with it. Not necessarily the hard beds at taverns or the drunks in the alleys, or even the fish guts in the harbour, but rather the feeling of life being around here. The house was the ideal for most - peace and quiet, just like Jane had wanted.

That didn't mean the house was devoid of any sort of life. Her first encounter with the housemistress, Gretel, had been a unfortunate one. She had met her the same night she had first visited the house, as she was followed to the room she would be staying in. Kenway had introduced them, but the stout woman had sent her a nasty look.

Gretel was that sort of housemistress who would spit in your pie before serving it, and offered little to no comfort. That was up until she realised she still would be staying after Haytham had left. Then she turned more amiable, helping her brush her hair at times, and even braiding it if Jane asked her. They had become friends of sort, although Jane missed less taciturn company. Her thoughts always seemed to drift to Dietrich when that feeling arose, and she had planned on writing him a letter. Just to apologise for their hasty goodbyes, if anything.

Problem was, she didn't know where to start. Nor where the boy lived. It had made her more sheepish than ever, even if she had drafted several letters. Letters that were then used as fuel for the hearth in her room, however.

And so, she had settled for writing long, detailed letters to her aunt and cousin Georges. Her father only got a short, assuring one, and she encouraged them all to write back to her soon. She did indeed need something to pass her time more than reading and going to bed early.

In fact, the night she decided to be defiant and stand up to her new habits, was the night that Haytham returned. She was sitting in the drawing room reading, much later than usual, when he came in, almost walking by her completely unnoticed it seemed, as he stopped promptly when he caught sight of her.

"Ah, Miss White." He took of his hat. He looked weathered, she noticed; traveldust had settled onto his fine coat, his boots were muddy and his eyes face sunken despite the healthy tan he had managed. Managed because it had been an unusually cold week, with nights even colder, mist and rain filling the days instead of sunshine, despite the season.

Deciding not to ponder his former whereabouts - which he certainly wouldn't tell her about anyways - Jane waved slightly from where she was slouched in the couch. "Forgotten about me?"

"Not quite," He replied, moving away and making his way in towards the kitchens, leaving a trail of muddy footprints after him. He called back from the kitchens, but quietly, probably not to wake Gretel. She did get up at ungodly hours to make breakfast, the poor woman. And now she'd have mud to clean up in the morning.

"My attention has been elsewhere." He said, shortly.

"I was under the impression that you'd make me do something. Wasn't that our bargain?" She called back, equal in tone before sipping some of her tea. "Or did you just try to get me off your back?"

He came back into the drawing room and sat down across from her. He gave her a long look. "You're suspicious."

"Rightfully so." She retorted, closing the book with one hand and setting it on the table. "You offer me work and a place to sleep but you've only given me one of those."

"Be grateful for what I've given you." Haytham warned. His demeanour was still easy, but there was a underlying something to his tone, one that didn't stem from his weary looks or the lateness of the evening.

"Not saying that I'm not. I'm just... disappointed, I guess the right term would be." Jane replied casually.

"I wouldn't go through the trouble of housing you, much less feeding you, if I wanted you gone." Haytham assured her, motioning to the plate of half-eaten cake beside her.

She cocked her head to the side, watching him. "Is it because I'm a woman?"

He seemed to ponder for a moment, stopping himself from replying immediately. Finally, he said; "Not entirely."

She arched a brow. "What else is there then?"

The Grand Master leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he stared at her with something elusive in his eyes. "Miss White - have you ever killed a man?"

Going quiet for a moment, she considered his question. "Well, once there was this boy who I tricked into doing something that may have gotten him seriously inj-"

"Miss White," Haytham interrupted firmly, "Have you ever killed a man with the intent of doing so?"

The pause returned, their eyes locked. Throat drying up, she finally replied quietly. "No, sir, I have not."

He leaned back in the opposite sofa, running a hand through his pulled back hair tiredly, sighing heavily. "How's your fencing then?"

Jane gave a shrug. Guess that finished that conversation, for goodness sake. "My aunt insisted that I try it. So I did, in Spain for six months alongside my cousins. With time, I was the best out of thirty students."

During the language and fencing lessons she had excelled - and in her mind, those were the only lessons that mattered. Mathematics and theology had bored her; she mostly nodded through them with half-closed lids, the teacher that praised her during fencing smacking her across her fingers during maths for not paying attention.

Even Laurent - the tallest and strongest of her cousins, built like a bear with a neck thick as any bulls - hadn't even been half as good as she was. She was the fastest, the one with the quickest reflexes and who danced around everyone until they either fell victim to the hot spanish sun or her sword.

"It's a good sport, I suppose. And a good skill to have while visiting those harbour taverns in London." Jane finished off, idly giving a flourish of her hand.

"Did you ever get to practice your skills?" Haytham peered at her, something akin to amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"Sailors are a bunch of crude creatures." She replied, scowling at the mere memory of leers and grab she had endured during her time in the harbour.

"Did you not fare unwell during your voyage to the colonies then?" Haytham asked, brows crinkling.

Jane didn't blame him for asking. She had told him that she got her with a merchant ship, and that there was no risk of any assassin's following her over the seas. He hadn't dwelled further into that interrogation though, and apparently saved that part for now. Timely, supposed, as he seemed to be in a good mood. His return made her feel generous and so, she humoured him. "Not at all. I went onboard as a man and stepped off as a woman. Of course, the captain was rather cross when he found out, but he didn't say anything after I paid him well."

"Do you expect coin to get you everywhere in the world?" Haytham asked, voice laced with some mirth. He rose from his seat, wiping away dust from his knees and moving to the opposite end of the room, opening a cabinet and pouring something into two glasses, handing one of them to her.

She shrugged, taking the glass from his outstretched hand unhesitatingly.

"I wouldn't say no. Money is the sound that rings fairest in most ears." She sniffed the contents of the glass - it was wine. _Good wine_, she noted after taking a sip, and then another one.

Haytham lifted his glass to her, and she complied, clinking her own to his. "Agreed."

At least they saw eye to eye one that matter. Money was the sound that rang fairest - money bought happiness, and anyone who disagreed had never truly witnessed its power or the security it brought with it.

She drank again, relishing in the taste of proper wine. She hadn't actually dared to drink anything from the cabinet, although she had leered at it quite a bit, and the pleasantness of it made it all too great. As she finished the glass, Haytham set down the whole bottle in front of her. Her eyes narrowed as she eyed the bottle. "Are you trying to get me drunk enough to loosen my tongue?"

Their deal was still a work in progress. One that was faring slower than she'd hoped. No thanks to Haytham - there was no proper engagement on his part. Just disappearing for weeks on end and then showing up in a particularly good mood, apparently. And then there was this, of course, giving her wine, seemingly without any ulterior motives.

Which wasn't true. That man always had ulterior motives.

It was obvious that Haytham considered her too knowledgeable to just leave her be - not that Jane minded; she needed him. Learning the hard way seemed to always be her road, and the weariness of him getting the little information that she had in other ways was a very real threat. It was a struggle to stay relevant and to have the upper hand.

Jane did not intend on losing.

Haytham sat back down opposite her again before replying. "Not at all. I just feel compelled to make you feel at ease. If all goes well, you'll have an errand to run by this week's end."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What would you have me do then?"

_Have you ever killed a man, Miss White?_

He took a drink from his own glass. "You're going to meet an associate of mine, just after dusk, I imagine. You'll do as he asks and then return here."

"Are we after the same thing, Kenway? I could've sworn there were more pertinent things to do than to meet up with your associate."

"Don't bargain for more than you can handle, Miss White." Haytham rejoined, giving her a long, hard look.

Melodramatically, she rolled her eyes. "How will I know this associate of yours then?"

"You needn't worry about that." The Grand Master sat an empty glass on the table between them, "I'll inform you of the details soon enough."

"Yes, sir." She said, pouring herself another glass and opening the book again, sensing that this was the end of that discussion.

They fell into comfortable silence - her reading and him seemingly relishing in being home again. It was late though, and she wondered why he wouldn't just return to his chambers instead of sitting there, not really doing anything but ever so often getting more to drink.

The drawing room was sparsely decorated. In fact, the room with the most furniture was probably the study. Here only cabinets, tables and sofas were held, with a few expensive looking mats on the floor, with only one large hearth burning down to cinders at any given moment. There wasn't even much to look at in the room. Befittingly, his attentions turned to her instead.

"What are you reading?" He asked, settling a bottle of whiskey on the table as he returned from the cabinet for the fourth or fifth time now.

The question came as a surprise, and her head whipped up from the pages too quickly. "The Odysseus."

"Oh? What do you gather from it?" There was genuine interest in his voice. Truly, he was in a good mood this evening.

"Homer should've written his characters better." Jane said, lip curling slightly as she absentmindedly read another passage in the book.

The man, to her bewilderment, chuckled.

"What made you think that?" His voice rang of amusement. It startled her, and for a moment Jane thought long and hard about what made her dislike Odysseus.

"He's so... plain." She finally stated, brows furrowed and shoulders a mere shrug. "He's supposed to be this hero, blessed by the gods, but he's not making me want to read any further. I've read it before so I'm aware of how it ends, so that's not concern. But... back then, I didn't really understand it. And I wanted to read it now just to try again, but I can't figure out more now than back then."

Haytham's brows crinkled, nose scrunching in a way that was something halfway towards a sneer and a look of confusion.

"Oh, no, I understand it perfectly. I'm not daft." Jane said, having caught eye of his expression. At that, his eyebrows raised. Jane rolled her eyes in response, but went on. "And I understand the weight of it as one of the most important works of literature of our time. It's just not doing anything for me. I can't sympathise with Odysseus."

The older man hummed for a moment, before finally saying: "Aren't the two of you quite alike?"

She laughed. "I can't see how."

Haytham shrugged carelessly. "You're both just trying to get home."

Shutting the book, she stood up and smiled at him. "Well, I'm not planning on taking some forty years to get home."

* * *

Had it been anyone -_ anyone else_ - and she would've had this done within six months of her setting her feet on colonial soil.

It had not been anyone else though - it had been Haytham Kenway. The Grand Master and esteemed member of society. Anyone else and she might've had the slightest chance of seducing or buying her father's safety.

Now though, no such thing was possible.

The old man was as stubborn as a mule, and by God had she tried all the methods she knew.

Outright threatening him would just be counterproductive so she had crossed that off her mental list very soon into their partnership. So she had tried to be sincere, offering coin while she was at it; and finally, he had taken her up on the offer. That method had proven to be the slowest one though.

Who did he think he was making her wait a whole month? Sitting around biting nails wasn't productive - in fact, it only served to make things more unbearable. If there was a way to speed things up she would be on it within a heartbeat.

And oh how she tried.

As he was kind enough to let her stay in his house, she did what any other young maid (_debatable_) would do: seducing him. A few lascivious looks thrown his way couldn't harm, could it? If he had some consistency, he'd spend most of his days away from his Boston home so why not?

One night, she had slipped down in nothing but a silk dressing gown to the kitchens. She had heard him awake. Playing coy, she had pretended to be surprised to see him there. Alas, here she was, sitting in a bush outside a tavern because the greying Templar cared more about some letters than a young lass naked below a thin sheet of silk.

Frankly, she had been angered. It was a truly cruel world they lived in if girls her age couldn't lure unsuspecting (_debatable_) men into their beds as they saw fit. It had been the methods she would've preferred - next to coin, of course. It was quick, easy an could be use for praise or blackmail and Master Kenway wasn't really that bad looking for only being slightly younger than her own father. Broad shoulders, a good, strong jawline and dark hair. He was comely, for sure. And rich. And powerful.

She decided to try harder when she got home.

_If_ she got home in one piece. This cold would give her frostbite soon, she reckoned with chagrin. With that thought, Jane shivered, teeth clattering.

The night had been long and would only continue to get longer.

_Damn that bastard_, she thought, the smug grin of the one they called Thomas Hickey still fresh in mind. He had thought her a man at first, but as he had caught sight of the curve of her breasts beneath her shirt he had made sure to point them out. Out was exactly what she wanted him to get now. Hickey had been gone for a while now inside the tavern, with its all too inviting warm hearths and food, with ale and buxom barmaids and patrons singing.

As she sighed, hot air traveled up into the air, and she noted to not do that again. Someone could see it and notice her. Which was exactly what Hickey had told her not to be - _noticed_. Still, the only ones to come out in the back so far had been a whore and a patron, who soon scampered off with their caresses when men going out for a piss cursed and spat at them. There had been none out for a while now, and the men seemed to appear in waves, with three or five standing there and having pissing contests and what not.

With that in mind, she set the already prepped and primed musket down on the ground before her. She flexed her fingers and hissed as the bloodflow returned.

_He told you to wait outside_, an inner voice reminded her, with it's low, callous whispers, _you're staying outside_.

"Damn that _fils de salope._" Jane muttered, a colourful arrangement of curses forming soon after. If only she could sneak inside, maybe even get her hands on something warm to drink, like honey ale or mulled wine and she'd be set for the rest of the evening.

Hickey wouldn't mind, would he? He'd be in there for so long now that he might as well have been sleeping off his drink in some corner. Maybe he was busy trying to get the man out at this very moment. The scenarios all weighed heavily in her head, but the cold even more so when her entire body shook as a shiver came over her again.

It did not take more than the resonating sound of a man slamming open the tavern's back door to set her in motion. She rushed past him, almost knocking him over with his breeches down as she got inside the welcoming warmth of the tavern.

The plan had been for her to wait outside for the man, and for her to shoot him and then run to where the two of them had first met. Hickey's job was to somehow get him outside, to lure him out and to let her kill him from a safe distance. That had been the plan.

Keyword being _had_.

A change of plans was in order, she mused as she caught sight of Hickey. His back was turned to her, but he was still alone, surprisingly. She'd thought he'd at least have one barmaid in his lap by now, but his only company was a tankard and his tricorn hat on the table.

Rubbing her hands together she moved swiftly through the crowd of patrons and took a seat opposite him.

He squinted at her. "Piss off-" She pulled down the scarf wrapped around her face and muttered a greeting before his eyebrows even had time to shoot up.

"Wot the fuck you doin'?" Hickey whispered harshly, leaning over the small, wooden table towards her, "Wait yer fuckin' arse outside."

Jane gave an exasperated sigh, looking over his frown. "Then make him go outside. It's cold. How am I supposed to aim if I don't have any hands left?" She held out her hands, showcasing her trembling hands.

"Knit some fuckin' mittens 'en."

"Very funny." She spat back, lip curling while she grabbed his tankard and took a swig.

"Oi! Get your own fuckin' drink!" He grabbed the tankard and checked if there was any left. Jane rolled her eyes and he sent her a look of indignation.

"Stop pullin' stories outta yer arse, lass." The soldier bellowed, cockney accent thick while he no longer seemed to care if anyone heard them over the tavern's clamour of merry songs and chatting.

He pointed a shaky finger at her, "You muckin' 'bout in 'ere might as well send us head first to the gallows, got that, _sweet'art_?"

"You've not moved your ass at all since you came in, have you?" She spat back, glaring at him. "You go out there then. Freeze _your_ fingers off."

"Wot do you know? You've been 'ere for five seconds an' you act like someone shoved a stick up yer arse. Wot did little ol' me ever do t'ya?"

She pursed her lips, shaking her head and huffing. "You left me out in the cold for what - three hours now? You could've come out with a drink or something."

Hickey shrugged. "Ain't my fault you don't know how to dress."

"Shut up." She spat.

To her surprise, he complied, giving her a look that said 'told you so'.

Jane let out an sigh again, eyes wandering around the tavern. It was divided in two parts, separated by the stairs leading to the upper floors and rooms that patrons rented. It was a large place - situated this far out of Boston it needed to be. It was an inviting place to be, with three hearths crackling and illuminating the dark shadows, and with high wooden beams in the ceiling.

"Ain't supposed to be in here." Hickey sang, rubbing a hand across his clean-shaven face. He'd think this would've been a much simpler little thing to take care off, but Haytham had explained otherwise. He'd only bothered to shave that morning with the intent that his head would get between a woman's thighs, but that possibility had gone away as the big man had told him 'bout this one. It was a military man, no less, one that needed to be rid off.

Why Haytham had insisted that the fussock of a girl be brought along he didn't know. She was too much trouble for what little worth she held.

Jane turned back to look at him, her brows narrowing. "Could you at least tell me what he looks like?"

The soldier sent her a suspicious look before snorting in disbelief.

"There's been a dozen of men out there already, if he comes out I'll take him." Jane reasoned, holding up a hand of surrender.

Hickey considered it for a moment, running a hand through his short hair. He gave a long sigh and nodded towards a table on the other side of the room, in the furthest corner. "Brown hat. Posh Londoner lad. If you don't see him - you'll hear him."

It was true. The man, (_their target_, she reminded herself) had a hearty laugh and a loud voice, and made himself clearer than most as she took in the sight of the crowd.

"Don't even need to get past 'em to eavesdrop on their sorry arses - hey!" Hickey stopped, a hat shoved into his ready arms, a scarf soon following.

When he recovered from the onslaught of items, she was already making her way towards the target in long strides. "Bloody fussock." Hickey clenched.

Towards and towards, well, _not_ _really_. Jane was a woman, almost at her twentieth year, and one does not pass such an age-mark without knowing _certain_ things. That was, certain womanly things. Womanly wisdom was one of such things.

So, she passed the group of men where her target was, caught his eyes and kept on walking in the ever flirtatious way of carnal pleasures.

Age-old and well-used, seduction was a thing of finesse. For some girls it came naturally and for other's it took observation and cautious planning.

In the end though, it all depended on the man; and this one was without a doubt one to frequent brothels.

_Less work for me_, Jane thought, taking a long breath and letting the warmth of the hearths fill her completely.

As she reached the point that divided the two parts of the tavern, she turned back and was met with a scene that looked straight out of her own imagination. Glossed over eyes and rosy cheeks met her, a toothy smile joining them soon. To the cheering of his mates he rose and began stumbling towards her.

Simpering at that, she fluttered her eyelashes and motioned for him to follow.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Hickey's eyes following her, eyes steady and fixed with something... was it panic? Jane shook her head. It couldn't be. He who had been so confident before.

This part of the tavern was less clamoured, the air colder but fresher and the bar mostly empty. It served her though, and she took a seat, waiting patiently for her unknowing target to follow.

When he reached her, she smiled again and greeted him in her thickest french accent. He must've liked that, for he beamed back at her, and his brown eyes clouded with drink shun as he sat down opposite her.

"You, eh, _mademoiselle_," The man started, pulling off his hat and doing a mock bow, thick voice coated in what could only be described as lewdness. "You look like somethin' outta them fairytales."

"Flattery is always appreciated," Jane fluttered her eyelashes at him, "_Merci, mon chéri_." She smiled, twirling a piece of loose hair between two fingers.

His cheeks were rosy. Not because of her, she wasn't that daft - but rather because of drink. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot and the way he licked his lips and pulled at his breeches every time he adjusted his legs spoke more of his way of life than he'd ever imagine.

Especially of what he wanted with her.

Jane could still see Hickey from far away, and he kept his eyes peeled to her in return. He leaned back and raised his tankard her way.

_Suit_ _yourself_, his posture said. She hoped the barmaid would spill his drink all over him next time she came over. Almost did she glare at him when her attention returned to the man in front of her.

"Say, _chéri_, I couldn't not escape but to notice you before... what's your name?" Jane inquired, crossing her legs as she decided that it would be better to just have this done with. If there laid any kind of truth in Hickey's worry, then this was a man many held fear for.

That, or he had enough coin to make sure no one bothered him without consequences.

This, she hoped, didn't count as a bother.

He leaned back in the chair. His eyes were all over her, undressing her with his mere gaze. "Marcus. Marcus Lawrence."

"Lawrence," She let the name coat her tongue for a moment. "_Je m'appelle Jeanne_."

"Pleased to meet you, Jeanne." He bowed his head, then took ahold of her hand and kissed it, letting his tongue linger against her skin. She giggled at that, pulling her hand back. He was trying to be gentlemanly, even if he was piss poor drunk. Perhaps it was a sign of effort and had it not been for the fact that he was her target she might've even liked him.

Sure enough, his words were slurred and his nose crooked from being broken too many times, but he understood her through the haze that was drink and the untamed beard that framed his face.

It was comforting to speak french so openly. And comfort was certainly something she needed, the cold still within her. For sure, many did not like the french on this side on the sea.

Not that many did on the other side either, she noted, sourly. But the hatred ran deep in the british colonies. The colonies themselves were sought and bought and fought for, and the french and the british were at each other's necks like the married couple they were in all but law.

Marcus Lawrence however, seemed to find every french syllable passing her lips exotic. It only served to bring him closer to where she wanted him, and so she offered more of it, her accent thick now. She couldn't take too much credit though; french girls had a certain reputation and maybe that was the reason he even gave her any second thought.

Oh well. Milk it for what it's worth, right?

"What's this?" She reached over and took his hand into her own. There was a ring on his finger. One that indicated that he had some sort of commitment.

"More than I could ever hope for, love," He went on, "But don't worry your little head with that, now, shall we?" The particularly salacious look her sent her and the glare she responded with didn't seem to bother him at all.

It bothered her. Vexation grew the more she stared at the golden ring. The mere thought of a woman somewhere - keeping her legs shut for years on end for a man that rolled in the hay like a pig in the mud for any pair of tits and lashes - made her curl her lip, a seething annoyance settling inside of her, no matter how unique or exotic the man found her.

No matter if he wouldn't have done it had been anyone but her.

Infidelity: she was the epitome of it. A bastard. A poor, poor bastard whose life would've been a whole fucking lot easier had she not been born out of wedlock.

And a man who let himself be tricked by a pair of fluttering lashes and the swaying of hips was no man at all.

Snapping out of her thought, Jane let go of his hand, simply caressing the small tattoo that was also upon his hand. "Let's say we get some, how do you say... drink?"

He also stirred at that, and waved and grunted at the barkeep who simply rolled his eyes before coming over with two tankards.

When Lawrence turned back towards her, a grin was on his face. "And what in the everlovin' hell might we 'ave here?"

She blinked, accepting the tankard the barkeep handed her. She wasn't entirely sure what was in it, but she still sipped it. "I'm simply biding my time for the morrow, _monsieur_ Lawrence."

Lawrence shook his head, taking a large swallow from his drink before speaking. "Not that way, love, I meant - what's a lass like you doin' out here? You look a bit out of your element, if I may say so." He gestured towards her clothes.

"Looking for luck." Jane stated, sipping whatever it was that the barkeep had handed her. It was bitter, and tasted foul on her tongue. She resisted grimacing and settled for setting the tankard down on the table.

"Well, I thought I left Ireland. 'Course, us irish are quite the lucky-charms." He snickered, grabbing her tankard with a knowing look and taking a swig, taking it for himself. Seems he wasn't a Londoner lad, as Hickey had stated. What more could he be wrong about then? The man hadn't laid a finger on her, and hell - _he_ treated her better than what that lobcock Hickey ever had done during their short acquaintance. Minus the marital commitments, that is. "So how's that coming along for ya? Found yer little bit of luck then?" Lawrence finished off, beaming at her.

She offered him a coy smile and said: "You're here now, so, I think that affair might be _fini_."

Well, it wasn't a _complete_ lie.

"Me?" Lawrence raised a brow, leaning closer towards her, voice gruff. "Is that why you're here, love?"

"_Chéri_," Her back straightened, the braid dangling off her shoulder while the smile still played on her lips. "You seem like the kind of man to kiss a girl and leave her in the morn."

He licked his lips. "I'll do a lot more than that if you're offering."

"A job finished properly needs no second opinion, _chéri_." Slowly, tantalising, she slid a foot against his leg, starting from his boots and up to his knee. With that, he quirked a brow, and she giggled.

"Aye, and is that what you're here for?" The light from the heart illuminated him; his eyes shun something fiercely, the droplets of drink in his beard glistening. "A job well-done?"

"Maybe less, maybe more."

"What is it that you want for that 'en? Coin?"

"I do not charge for such privileges. You're rather... special." Jane assured him slowly, "_Non, chéri_, what I wish for is a military man. Good and strong, zealous and proud. And certainly _être un bon coup._"

His face turned to a toothy grin. He must've understood that.

Now, it was her turn to ask the questions and sliding her foot along his leg ever further, she stopped at his inner thigh, voice turning to a mere whisper. "Then again, you'll have to prove that. _Oui_, _monsieur_?"

"I'll be happy to oblige." Lawrence purred, putting a firm hand on her ankle and yanking her closer. "If you're as good with that mouth at sucking as talking then I reckon the same goes for you." He whispered and she gasped at the sudden movement.

"_Monsieur_!" He pressed her foot against his crotch and her face heated up. He guffawed, letting go of her. Afterwards, he patted his lap readily for her.

Soon sat astride in his lap, whispering lovely nothings into his ear, the tankards on the table forgotten and the looks of disgust that the barkeep sending them going fully unnoticed.

A warm, calloused hand started sliding below her dress shirt, her waistcoat's golden buttons already popped. Upwards it travelled, cupping her breast, just a simple thin, chemise separating his hand from the bare mound of flesh.

She looked away, more concerned than bashful. "_Monsieur_... don't do such things here. Someone might see." Hickey might see, more or less. For all sake's and purposes, she wasn't indecent. And really, one shouldn't reveal all the ace's up their sleeve too easily, should they?

He squeezed her. "Or hear."

In response she rolled her eyes, placing a firm hand on his and pushed it down, out from her shirt.

"What do you propose then?" Lawrence nibbled her ear, and she shivered, pressing a light kiss to one of his cheeks before whispering into his ear.

"_La petite mort_." Said Jane, pulling a hand along his chest as she stood up. He tried to catch hold of her again, but only managed to take her hand. She smiled and mouthed a single word of encouragement to him which made his eyes shine just like he had done before, and then they were outside.

The cold hit her harder than even before; maybe it was due to her scarf and hat being left inside, or maybe it was due to the fact that the evening had gone on and the cold had taken a firmer hold of the night.

What she was certain of, however, was that the body pressing into her from behind was very, very warm.

With all her heart she wished that Hickey would follow soon; that he wasn't the spiteful kind, and even more so when she felt Lawrence panting at her neck and his hands around her waist, inching lower and lower with each passing moment.

Securely blocking the tavern's backdoor, Lawrence pressed her face first into the wooden planks.

"Should've worn a dress, love." He tugged at the belt holding her breeches up impatiently. his tongue darted out to lick at her neck.

Jane shivered at his words, goosebumps rising on her skin. Then she swallowed hard, the realisation of something hard poking her backside becoming all too apparent.

Pushing his hands away, just like she had done before when his hands got astray, she muttered: "N-not here."

"Can't wait." He muttered back, emphasising it with a grind of his hips. His mouth marked her neck and his greedy hands found the buckle of her belt.

It was first when he grabbed her wrists, holding them securely away from is ministrations by her belt, that panic started to set in. She had thought he was jesting, would let her go once he had given her a mark, let her pull him away and tease him until she could reach the musket in the bushes or just wait for Hickey to come out and play the jealous lover.

None of that happened though.

His grip tightened.

She trashed against him, sending her head backwards.

Lawrence fell to the ground, where he laid sputtering for a moment. "Fuckin' hell," He muttered from below, a harsh guffaw in his voice. "None ever done that before."

Without any hesitation he kicked her in the shin, resulting in Jane yelping in pain, falling to her knees. Crawling on all fours, he grabbed ahold of her braid, wrapping it in his hand and holding her neck in a strained fashion, watching as tears started to collect in the corners of her eyes. "Guess there's a first time for everything, love." Lawrence cackled, jerking her head closer by her braid as she whimpered. "Anyone ever done this before, eh?"

"You're disgusting." Jane growled, nails digging into his forearm and wrists, vision blurring with an incoming headache.

"Quiet, you fussock." Lawrence spat out a blob of blood on the ground, getting up on his feet again, dragging her upwards with him as he went, "Weren't you the one who promised me something? The little death, was it?" He drew exaggerated circles in the air with his free arm, then covered his nose, trying to protect his white shirt and face from the blood gushing from it. The soldier's breath was raggedy, splatters of blood hitting her in the face with every word he uttered.

"You'll regret this." Jane clenched, any pretence of heavy french accent gone. She struggled against him despite the ripping of hairs on her scalp.

Behind her, he chuckled. It was wicked. "C'mere," He shook her again, licking his lips as a startled, soundless cry left her lips, "An' I'll give you that, right now, fuckin' move a fuckin' inch you little-" Jane shoved a knee into his crotch, replacing the man's bellowing with a sickening crunch.

This time, he howled.

If a scowl hadn't already settled on her face it did so now. Another thing that settled was one of her boots between his ribs. Repeatedly.

"Like this?" Jane beckoned, kicking him harder. _That's what you get for betraying you wife_, she thought, her own breathing growing laboured as she kicked him repeatedly. _That's all you're going to get._

"_Nique ta mere, putain_!" She cried, stepping on the fingers that previously had been tangled in her hair.

His cries grew louder, his scrambling for her legs more frantic when he started coughing and spitting blood.

"Please," He wailed, blood sputtering from his mouth on her coat. Suddenly, her appreciation for the singers in the tavern increased tenfold. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, and Jane stepped away from the man, letting him lay in the dirt while she rounded a corner, nothing but frenzy in her eyes.

His relieved sobbing reached her ears. The thinning of his voice ebbed out as he cried. The sorry sod probably thought she'd leave him alone after a good beating. Little did he know that there was still one more thing she would be giving him.

When she returned to him, she found him scurrying against the tavern's wall, pressing his face into the planks, smearing blood against the white paint. Vomit lay by his feet, and when he caught sight of her, he looked like he was about to empty his stomach again.

Holding up a pleading hand, he panted heavily, eyes no longer glossed over. "P-please, I-I'll pay you, coin, g-good coin."

"You're forgetful, Lawrence," Jane aimed the gun at his head. "I don't charge for this sort of privilege."

The recoil of the gun hit her harder than the blood and brains splattering over the walls.

Inside, the music stopped and a foreboding silence fell, the jeering and jesting being half-hearted until it died down like the tinders of a hearth.

Outside, her breath rose in the cold, remind her that she was alive and that it wasn't her blood splattered on the ground. With shaky hands she held the empty musket, dropping it in the bushes where she first had hidden it.

It was not on instinct that her feet moved. She knew exactly what she was doing as she strode towards the tavern's front door. Jane White sunk down there, hunching against the wall, the cold wind tugging at her bare cheeks and turning the sweat she had managed before into an uncomfortable icy feel.

The horses of patrons stood not to far from her, and they trashed their heads about, smelling the blood on her. Their sounds were soon accompanied by a woman's shrill scream, and men's curses as they found the body, and then followed by a triumphant shout of victory as someone found the musket.

No one found her. Except for Thomas Hickey, who came out from the front door, her scarf and hat still in hand.

Hickey clicked his tongue, staring at the ramifications of her actions on her boots. "Would'ya look at that."

She said nothing, only swallowed, a heavy frown tugging at her lips as she nodded in response to the question he never asked. The horses neighed, the shouts of more people ringing through the cold air.

Not wasting anymore time - or the chance of some other poor bastard noticing the blood and brains on the girl - Hickey grabbed her forearm, pulling her up on shaky legs. When she was well on her feet, he set her hat on her head and wrapped the scarf around her sloppily.

"Let's go, poppet." With a satisfied smile at the girl's accomplishment and a pat on the shoulder for her wide-eyed, panic deer look, Hickey led her towards the horses.

* * *

_Fils de salope_ - son of a bitch.

_Je m'appelle Jeanne_ - I am called Jeanne/My name is Jeanne.

_Fini_ - finished.

_Non, chéri -_ no, darling.

_Être un bon coup_ - literally, "be a good hit", but it means to be good in bed.

_La petite mort_ - literally: the little death, it is a euphemism for an orgasm, hence Lawrence's enthusiasm.

_Nique ta mere, putain!_ - Fuck your mother, whore!

On a different page than french though, if you've never tried mulled wine - do it. Try it. It's so good and I drink it whenever I can. My own favourites are the ligonberry ones and the spiciest cinnamon ones. So so so good. (Well, if you're old enough to try it, that is, though I'm pretty sure there's nonalcoholic versions too.)

Pop culture references are my faves and I hope you catch them all. Stay tuned! Reviews and constructive criticism is always appreciated. English is my third language, so any remarks regarding those sort of things are great for my learning curve.

And as a final mention; I noticed a continuity error in the previous chapter, one that some of you who've read Forsaken might've picked up on. It has since then been edited.


	3. The constant variables

THE CONSTANT VARIABLES

* * *

The evening had been quiet so far, even if Jane and Hickey leaving at dusk had rendered him sleepless until the wee hours of the morning, as it was now. Haytham leaned back in his chair, still in his study at this hour, writing letters and carrying correspondence regarding a certain someone.

Finally, the lateness of the hour had started to settled in and through something akin to convincing the Grand Master had managed to tell himself that there was nothing to worry about.

Thomas was thoroughly dependable. He kept in line. At least when it came to Order business. It was Jane that worried him. That wasn't the word for it though - it was more like a sense of apprehension for his choices. Rarely was it that Haytham regretted something; and if he did, it was of great merit and not without thought.

But as he had seen the horses of Hickey and Jane disappear over the high hills of Boston, the musket strapped to her back, a feeling had settled in his gut. He would've done it himself had it not been for his other responsibilities that particular evening.

Haytham had never been one to turn the other cheek or be afraid of getting his hands dirty out on the field. Yet it had been so that he had guest to attend to that evening - Jane needed to be gone, Lawrence was, coincidentally, also in town and needed to be gone. It all lined up perfectly.

It had been for simplicity's sake that he told Hickey to drag out on the time a bit. It was also just for simplicity's sake that it had been the lad in question who he gave the job to. Thomas needed to get away from some unwanted eyes in New York, and what better to do so then Boston, doing work that he held such obvious aptitude for?

Thomas was rarely one to say no to drink, and if it involved a tavern - and all the wanton joys it brought with it - he would, without a doubt, be up for it. That this little affair involved a girl didn't hurt either, Haytham imagined.

Simply, it wasn't the first time this sort of errand had become relevant. Thomas had done just fine the last time. However, there was another variable in this equation. Namely, the girl. His worry.

_My responsibility_, Haytham swiftly corrected himself, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Jane was his responsibility - _well_, firstly, she was her own, but if it involved Templar business that made Reginald and the European branch an active part of the play then she was also his.

Which meant that whatever muck up she could cause would come back to bite him in the arse.

His luck had been an odd chance - plenty of coincidences just perfectly working alongside each other without protest, falling into their own respective places. It was too good to be true, Haytham mused, signing a letter with his signature.

And so was the case, he found, as he was startled out from his own thoughts, his worry materialised. The two he had sent off stumbled into his study - both of them soaked and pissed, nasty glares and words passing between them as a bottle of rum would between comrades.

"What are you two doing?" Haytham barked. Not a moment passed before he realised they weren't paying much attention to him; they were both too busy manhandling each other.

"Let me go!" Jane hissed, pulling at her arm. Thomas hauled her into the room even further.

"Stop squirmin', ya banshee!" Thomas roared, and the girl feigned ignorance, putting all her weight on the oaf's arm and leaning backwards, pulling towards the door. With a groan, he tugged her all the way inside again.

Thomas turned to Haytham: "Look at 'hat mess, boss!" The lad waved around frantically at the girl, still viciously tugging.

The tresses of her hair hung loose, whipping about her face as she struggled. "Let me go, you lobcock!"

"Oi!" Hickey finally released her, and she tumbled away form him and into one of the bookcases, where she stood on shaky legs for a moment, books tumbling down around her.

_Christ..._ Haytham took in the scene of them both. Vicious, is the word he'd use to describe them. If Hickey's bellowing hadn't already woken Gretel he'd be pleasantly surprised. It was when he caught sight of the bloody nose his Templar brother was sporting that he rose, a sudden anger overcoming him. He sent a glare towards the girl, who adjusted her balance and leaned against the shelves, panting, her eyes sunken and face queerly pale.

Yet he sheeted the anger - the flame it had alit extinguished before it even breathed fully into life. With a few calm breaths he adjusted his cravat, the feeling passing by unnoticed by the rooms other three occupants.

Three. _Ah, yes_, Haytham noticed suddenly. The stableboy that had led them up to his door now stood by it, pale and quiet, taking in the scene as Jane hurled a book in Hickey's direction. With a quick flick of his wrist, the boy was off, the door slamming shut behind him._ For the better of us all_, he thought, sourly, another book flying past him and straight into Thomas' knee.

"Fuck you, you bloody fussock!" The Templar roared in reply, taking two swift strides - and avoiding another deliberately cruel hurling of a book - and pried the scarf wrapped around the girl off, revealing a bloodstained shirt. Much to her chagrin, it seemed, as she swung her fist at him. He caught her hand before she even reached his chin, holding it away as he gestured all over her.

"Look at 'er!" He bellowed, gesturing at the blood and brains all over her. Her boots were stained, but they were the cleanest out of the bunch. Her shirt and breeches were dark with blood, the scarf around her covering the most of her upper body.

Hickey continued on; "She blew that idiot Lawrence right through the fuckin' head, right there! Didn't even let him go off 'till the woods like she s'pposed to- no, she pulled him out back an' got into a fisticuff with that cock!" Hickey jerked a finger in her direction, and drawing a long shaky breath he released an unpleasant looking Jane from his second grip that evening, "And 'en she went off and tried to run off into town after meself-"

"I wasn't trying to do anything!" She shouted back, voice shrill.

"I told ya to get yer arse back 'ere, not go all willy nilly an' follow me 'bout town!"

"I said sorry already, didn't I? All I did was ask you for a simple favour!"

"Aye, ain't one you're gonna get now, _sweet'art._" Hickey retorted sourly, enunciating every word to her as if she was a child. He turned back to Haytham. "Look 'ere, mate - your little girl right 'ere went off an' almost got 'erself killed 'cause she got tired waitin' out in some bushes."

Haytham raised an inquiring brow in her direction, the feeling in his gut returning. "You jeopardised an entire operation because you were _cold_?"

"And she fuckin' almost blew me cover too!" Hickey got the last word.

Jane's eyes travelled about for a second. "Yes?"

As she caught sight of the utter look of incredulity the Grand Master sent her way her face fell; a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth as she tried to sham a smile his way.

"Don't even realise how thickheaded ya sound, lass." Hickey snickered, leaning his head backwards, trying to stop his nosebleed.

The look left her face, replaced with mere irritation as her attention returned to Hickey. "He's dead, isn't he? Wasn't that the whole point?" She rejoined, shrugging, eye traveling between the two men in the room. "Sometimes you have to put your money where your mouth is."

"Is that what you call that?" Haytham asked, nodding towards her attire. "Putting your money where your mouth is? More like cause a lot more trouble and time than what this whole ordeal was worth."

She gave a pause, eyes meeting his. Then she sighed, shaking her head. "It's done, all right?"

Haytham didn't grace her with a smile, although there was a sense of pride there. He recognised it clearly, even. It had occurred to him several times before; ever since his Templar Adept days spent in France, and even earlier than that. When his father taught him the art of swordplay, how he'd praise him whenever he did a correct move and countered a particular hard hit. He had seen it in Birch's eyes as he congratulated him on a mission well done, another body cold, lifeless-

Maybe. Maybe one day she'd be worth the investment.

Hickey's words brought Haytham out from his musings: "Aye, but you went around darggin' 'im off like 'at. 'Course someone's to know- why'ddja think I tried to stop ya in the first place?"

Jane snorted in disbelief. "You're not one to talk - you weren't doing anything!"

Thomas shook his head, sneering. "You loitered in there an' 'en took off with 'im just as meself was about to get 'im."

"A little timing next time, perhaps?" She replied sardonically, cocking her head and sending him a false, toothy smile. Thomas guffawed loudly and their arguing continued.

Nonetheless, whatever pride he felt towards the girls development couldn't show. Or, not in that particular moment. Worry still ate him from within - accompanied by something else; not relieve, not even pride for his little experiment surviving the nigh.

Rather, it was something that made him flex his fingers behind his back ever so often, and that turned his lips into a thin line and made his brows furrow deeply. Something he only had felt as he had threatened Betty that night.

Thinking about it only served to make it more pronounced. With that in mind, only one thing ran through Haytham's head - even as he approached the girl from behind his desk ever so slowly, her scowl deepening with every step forward:_ let's make her run for her money._

"There won't be a next time, Miss White." Haytham interrupted the two's chattering.

"But, sir-" Jane regurgitated.

"No," He held up a hand. "Don't even try." At his tone, her face drained of colour, a rather macabre sight next to the coagulated blood on her person.

She tried to form a sentence, her jaw shuddering as the words wouldn't leave her mouth when

It was Hickey's turn to interrupted now. "Can't go cockin' up men and business all at once, lass."

"Keep your mouth shut!" Jane flushed, and Hickey released a throaty laugh at her expense.

"Thomas, please," Haytham said lightly, turning to the girl once again as he started to wander around the study. "It's true as he says. Kill a man in secrecy and no one will know. Kill a man in front of a whole tavern and everyone _will_ know. Kill cleanly or not at all."

"Tell me something new." Jane rolled her eyes.

"However, " Haytham went on, pulling out a bottle from one of the drawers by his desk and throwing it at Hickey, "Our bargain still stands - and _you're_ dealing with whatever might come from this," He gestured all over her clothes, finishing: "Muck up."

"As if!" Her lip curled, arms crossing over her chest. "As if it wouldn't have turned out like this if I had stayed out there and lost a finger or two!" Jane pointed an angry finger towards Hickey. "You're just trying to cover up what piss poor employees you have!"

Thomas held a hand to his chest in mock superciliousness.

Haytham took a step forward, looming over her form with his lips in a tight line, eyes stern and hard, drilling into her. "No, it wouldn't have. Are you truly that naive to believe that something of _this_ nature would go by unnoticed?" He released a breath, voice going low as he barely whispered the words to her. "Then again, I shouldn't expect more from you, should I?"

With that, a scowl settled on her face - _oh_, how she reminded him of Jennifer when she did that - her eyes vicious and steely. Without missing a beat, she enunciated every syllable of the words with such composure that one might think they were exchanging pleasantries: "Piss off."

_Oh_, was all he thought, _she didn't run very far._

"Was that all?" Haytham questioned, quirking a brow. His hands itched behind his back - it was a slight, no matter how little, one that he would not forget. He remained indifferent towards her, his breath slow and steady, the epitome of calmness, as he continued to keep eye contact with her. "Was that all from you this time, Miss White? No lecture? No bargain? _No insults_? Not even blackmail - oh, I had high hopes for you on that one-"

To his left, Hickey cleared his throat, but Haytham held up a hand, stopping whatever the lad was going to say.

Jane broke the stare. Her head fell; shoulders rounded, shaking slightly.

With a heavy sigh, he finished off: "Maybe, just _maybe_, you should try to realise that there's a reason why things are done in order. If everyone did as they pleased there'd be nothing but chaos. Get that through that little head of yours and all of this might be wiped away."

Her hands clutched the hem of her waistcoat. She didn't reply. His hand stretched out, prepared to grab her chin and make her look at him, to realise that this wasn't any game of getting in good with the higher ups, that this were lives, years, _decades_ of preparing and sacrifices-

But involuntarily, silence filled the room. And involuntarily, Haytham's own head cocked to the side, peering down at the girl. "Is... something amiss, Miss White?"

Her fists clenched in the sleeves of her coat as a reply, lips terrorised by her teeth.

Yet again, a throat was cleared. "Oi, 'Aytham." Hickey called, taking a swig from the bottle before continuing on, "Think we should let the little poppet o' to bed. Been quite an' evenin' for 'er, despite everythin'."

Haytham raised a brow at the sudden concern, looking back at his Templar brother. Hickey gestured toward the girl with a hand. It was first now that he saw the tears running down her face.

Silence fell over the room. Long and weary it hung in the air like poison gas or a smoke bomb.

"Go off then." The Grand Master finally said, dismissing her as he returned to his desk.

It took a moment, and then she was gone, slamming the door behind her none too gently.

Hickey flinched, the door closing a bit too loudly for his already sensitive senses. He dragged a hand through his hair, grousing. "Ask me an' she too much trouble for what she's worth." He snorted.

Haytham replied after a moment of consideration. "Agreed."

It must've surprised Hickey; he blinked at him, slowly asking: "Why you keepin' her around 'en?"

"Did that girl beat you hard enough for memory loss, Thomas? I've told you-"

"Was meaning why you keepin' her _here_," Thomas interrupted, rolling his eyes and pointing towards the floor with a single finger. "Let that banshee go cryin' somewhere else, that's all fine an' dandy, but _here_? You rarely ever let _us_ here! Wot in a blue moon did she do to deserve comin' an' goin' as she pleases?" He snickered then, quirking a brow in Haytham's direction. "Did that little minx get to ya?"

"No." He said. The arch of Hickey's raised brow increased. "Merely keeping her close." Haytham finished off.

Hickey was having a hard time keeping quiet this evening. "Wot? In case your cock needs a wetting?"

"_Thomas_."

"Aye, aye - got it, too early in the morn."

Silence fell over them - yet Hickey stayed, despite the warning sent his way, leaning against the window and drinking straight from the bottle. The liquor helped ease the pain from his nose and other wounds, and if things ran smoothy, he'd feel nothing but the hangover from the drink in the morning.

Well, _noon_, going by what time of the day it was now.

Haytham had come to appreciate Hickey over time - his easiness was a enjoyable trait. Of course, that didn't mean that the oaf was the most eloquent of company, but he made a fine drinking companion; one that always got the best seat in whatever tavern, who pulled barmaids into his lap and had the most simpleminded solutions to the most complex problems. Simply, a fine and much needed addition to the solid group of scheming men that Haytham surrounded himself with.

It was his familiarness with everyone all around him that sparked this appreciation; he didn't hold much love for his Templar brothers, Haytham supposed, the memory of Johnson arising once again - it simply was the way Thomas was. No matter how many crude and unsavoury things he said and did.

With that in mind, Haytham leaned back in his chair, twirling a quill between his fingers absentmindedly as he asked: "What was that favour all about then?"

"That," Hickey waved a finger in the air as he pulled his mouth from the bottle, shoving a hand into his waistcoat, "Wanted me to leave some letters to the courier. When I so politely decline the little fussock was more inclined to bite my arse for it. Followed me bloody arse all the way into town too." Thomas pointed to his nose and then grinned at Haytham's quirked brow. "So I took 'em for meself."

Haytham nodded, hand accepting the papers. They were sealed with wax, written on sturdy, yellowish paper, ink soaking through it on some parts nonetheless. His eyes reached the names;_ Genevieve Vasser, Greg Vasser, Pascal Artois, Peter Dietrich_.

"Guess you saw it 'en." Hickey stated, having caught sight of his expression.

"Indeed."

"Aye, saw it too - what she doin', writing to a tosser like 'im?"

Haytham gave a careless shrug. Peter Dietrich. He didn't know the forename - but the surname rang as clear as any bell. Philip Dietrich was the name of the merchant who had been supplying the patriots with gunpowder for a long while now - he'd trade his goods with the french and spanish, bringing the weapons and gunpowder barrels in, taxing them as wooden goods and wine. He was a smuggler, in other words. One who considered himself the hero of his own story, as he did his illegal business for the cause. The one that meant aiding support to Washington and the doomed likes of him.

It was only through the written word that Haytham himself knew Philip Dietrich. He'd never actually seen the man, much less spoken a word to him. It had been through his ears all over New York that he'd heard the name being whispered. Impressive to reach his own ears, he'd have to admit. That it hadn't reach the ever watching eyes and ears of authority however was another matter. A briber and a smuggler then?

The only question remaining was how that girl had to do with the likes of him.

"Gonna open 'em?" Hickey asked, interrupting his train of thought as he flopped down in the chair opposite him, bottle still in hand and nearly empty.

"No." Came his terse reply.

Thomas gave a disappointed pout. "Aww. I wanted to read the little poppets love letters," He snatched them back from Haytham's hands, prying ever so slightly at the wax seal, frowning as he realised he couldn't get through without breaking the seal. Still, Hickey chuckled. "Should've seen how red 'er ears went when I took 'em away."

Smirking, Haytham gestured all over Hickey. "Was that was happened to the rest of you?" There was mud stains all over his usually white trousers, and a bruise already forming on the bridge of his nose.

Hickey slapped his knee, sniggering and nodding, "Thought her a man the first time I laid my eye on her, an' I still do, goin' by that swing o' hers."

Well, he couldn't disagree. With a pair of breeches and that scowl she'd look like any clean shaven lad with her hair tied up. "She does give that impression."

"Could've been a pretty poppet had she gotten that snarl off 'er face." Hickey seemed to ponder that for a moment, a finger rubbing against his nose, flinching.

"Oh, you should see her in a dress then." He rejoined.

The soldier's chortled turned into a snort. "Aye, given that she'd blast a man's head off in it."

"Ah, that," Haytham leaned forward, his elbows on the desk between them. "Given what your little squabble revealed-"

"Oi," Hickey interrupted loudly. "I know well an' clear what yer gonna say, 'Aytham. But don't let 'er go off and take all the credit 'cause she waved 'er little arse in the right direction. Bloody banshee didn't even give me a chance! Left nothin' for scraps once she was done."

"Are you sure?" Haytham asked. Going by her crying just moments prior, he had a hard time believing that.

"Don't trust that lass enough to solely believe 'er word for it," Thomas shot him a look, taking a swig from his bottle before adding: "So I went an' saw for meself. Awful lot of mess for a first timer."

Blasted heads tended to do that.

"It usually is." He replied, remembering his first time. It was saddening, he supposed, but he felt no other feelings towards it at this day. It had come naturally - the time he protected his mother and drove his sword through the robber. Perhaps that had been the case for Jane too - to just let it come naturally.

_One does not blast a man's head off naturally though_, Haytham thought, lip thinning ever so slightly,_ if that was the case there'd be less infuriating people left on this earth._

"Aye, more ways than one." Hickey snickered, remembering another sort of first time.

"Everything else, then?" Haytham exhaled heavily, the weariness of the hours he'd been awake making itself known once again.

"Coming along just fine in New York, sir." Hickey assured with a nod of his head and a grin, one that was bloody but one that Haytham was familiar with. "Brewin' up somethin' real big in preparation."

Good. Good man, Hickey. He nodded. "I've already written Charles and Benjamin regarding it. In the mean time, go on about your business as usual - but stay in touch, Thomas."

"Aye, boss," Thomas winked, setting the now empty bottle atop Haytham's desk and rising. "Won't let ya miss me."

"Thomas." Haytham's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Aye?"

"The letters."

Begrudgingly, Hickey handed them over.

* * *

The following afternoon came all too quickly.

Drink and going without sleep for plenty of hours was not a good combination, and surely not at his age. Haytham wasn't sure how Hickey managed it so often, but the headache he had produced during the few, worrisome hours of sleep he got was pounding away at his temples like a smith at a workbench.

Nonetheless, Gretel had been kind, letting him sleep past his usual waking hours. As he entered the dining room though, he started wondering if it had been worth it.

"Why is it that you must always bring him here, sir?" The housemistress complained, settling a tray of eggs and ham before him. "It's always him- that man! Hickley, is it?" Haytham nodded, the food in front of him more inviting than the woman's words. "Always him! I swear to god that I can still hear his accent ringing in my ears!"

_As I can do now, Gretel_, Haytham thought, the german woman's muttering still audible from the kitchens as he sighed to himself.

The former night was not the first time Hickey had been here, but it had always been him that Gretel disliked the most out of his Templar brothers. Not that the old woman liked anyone especially much, but she would send him nasty glares whenever the occasion arose for any Templar meetings were held in Haytham's own house, and even more so if she knew that they'd be spending the night.

Why? He didn't know, though he assumed that it had to do with several accidents involving the liquor cabinet and a very expensive persian rug.

Her dislike for the man was not something that Haytham delved upon much, however, and it did not bother him as if would have if she actually acted upon that discontent. Gretel was smarter than she let on - with small, watching eyes and ears that heard everything.

Luckily for him, she was loyal too. Otherwise many of his secrets would be floating around. His own private affairs was also the reason as to why he didn't keep more staff employed around the house full-time - that, plus an unfortunate memory of Edith and the end she had met.

Gretel's deep voice brought him back from his musings. "Ah! Jane! Come now, you have to eat - oh, don't be like that! I've toiled since early this morning and you're just leaving now? _Mein_ _gott_!" There was a pause. Then came a sorrowful rejoining: "Goodness, girl, I thought you'd have a heart!"

That was all it took and then the girl was shooed into the dining room to await breakfast.

She was wearing a dress today, her hair still in a braid. Had it not been for the puffy eyes she was sporting he might've forgotten about yesterday.

"Good morning." Haytham finally said, settling down the spoon from his egg for a moment. She simply got a dark look to her face, pulling some loose hairs behind her ear before sitting down opposite him.

His own lips pursed. Could he blame her for her ways? She _had_ ran away crying the previous night - and he was the reason for it, nonetheless. Or so he assumed; much was still to be known about Miss White.

Unhesitatingly, he'd dub her a good actress. Just poor at keeping it up for longer periods of time, as he had found out while sharing a house with her. The girl was more than just that - which she had showcased the moment she climbed in through his window, fair enough, but she had stayed that way.

No matter how flattering the dresses she wore were, he'd still remember the girl with dirt under her nails and blood splattered on her overcoat. The wide-eyed, stammering girl who relied on her father's influence and coin to get by had been replaced by someone far less eloquent.

That is, if that hadn't been an act on its own.

"Good afternoon, sir." Jane finally said, correcting him. Gretel came in with another tray, and the girl feigned a smile as the woman fussed over her, wiping away some imaginary dust from her shoulders.

They ate in silence, Gretel disappearing into the kitchens and making a ruckus over some of the servants girls cleaning.

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he started: "Miss White," She looked up from the egg she was currently beheading, and met him with wide grey eyes, "You never did answer my question yesterday."

She continued on with her ministrations. "Do repeat it."

"Is something amiss?"

Jane gave a loud huff, rolling her eyes. "You mean more than the fact that your little henchman's inactivity almost made me loose some fingers? That he then left me to fend for myself with a drunk soldier twice my size?" She beheaded the egg, ferociously. "Oh, I believe _something_ is amiss, Kenway."

"Which you gave him a bloody nose for." He rejoined, leaning back into his chair. Her voice was too shrill for his liking. Well, everyone's voices were too shrill for his liking today. Soon, Haytham started to regret ever making conversation with her.

Even more so when she dropped her cutlery onto her plate, brows narrowing while grey eyes glared at him over the table filled with different jams and bread. "He was stealing my private correspondence!"

"After you tried to force them onto him."

"I did not such thing!"

He raised a brow, more out of agitation that actual questioning. "Really? For as I see it you could've simply had some patience, done as you were bid and sent them off later." Haytham stated, finishing his tea.

"I'm old enough to decide certain things for myself, sir." She assured him, voice carried with a sudden lightness, demeanour much more composed within a few moments. Haytham smirked to himself - a good actress indeed.

It wouldn't last long, he mused however, and swiftly said: "That's hardly noticeable. Throwing a tantrum like that - like you're doing _now_ - you had it coming. You brought it all on yourself, and you suffered the consequences of your actions."

Jane gave a huff of disbelief, the former mien gone. "Are we going to go over this again?"

"Preferably not." Haytham replied, a slight tugging at the corner of his lips. Pressing her buttons was surely a fun thing to do.

This time she rolled her eyes at him. "Then why are you even trying to-"

"Because you're wrong, Miss White, and you're inane actions could've cost me more money and time than I'd like to." He had no qualms of putting her back into her rightful place - if that meant obedience, so be it. No matter how many tears she'd shed. "If I were you, I'd stick more according to plan next time. It'll bring you closer to your own goal much faster if you do."

She sent him a suspicious look, eyes thinning, "I thought you said there'd be no next time."

"I've slept on it." Haytham admitted.

"Yes?" She urged.

"I've not decided." He _had_ slept on it - but only for a few hours. Her first kill had been conducted - messily, but the deed was done. There were no more worries regarding her devotion to the Order. Killing was, in many cases, not a particularly high esteemed part of devotion, mind you, but it showcased devotion nonetheless. And for someone of the more fragile, fairer sex even more so.

Jane groaned, throwing the napkin in her lap at her plate, arms crossed, "That'll just slow us down more!"

_Us_? He stood up, proceeding towards her, "Going by your former performance I have a hard time finding that true, Miss White."

She grunted something under her breath in reply, looking away as he stopped a mere step away from her side.

Haytham rolled his eyes. Deciding that it was time to end this tantrum, he stuck one hand into his waistcoat. Devotion may be one thing but her loyalty another.

He tapped her lightly on the shoulder with his hand's contents.

"What's this?" Her brows narrowed at the letters in his hand.

"As sign of good will." He replied, and in afterthought, he added: "Or a prize for your first kill, if you like."

"Don't make it sound so grim." She pursed her lips, snatching the letters from his outstretched hand. Her eyes roamed them over, jaw falling agape.

"...Thank you."

He simply nodded, prepare to head back up to his study and to not care about any of yesterday's happening for a long while, or even back to his chambers until afternoon tea arrived when Gretel reentered the room.

Her forehead creased in concern, a frown on her old, wrinkly face as she spoke: "A courier just arrived, personally addressed to you, sir. He's waiting outside on the porch."

Grabbing his hat from the table, he sighed heavily. "Thank you." Haytham said, moving towards the drawing room. Behind him, the sound of Jane's chair screeching and the tap of her shoes followed him.

Reaching the hallway, Haytham opened the door, met by the broad back of a tall, young man. He tapped one foot against the wooden planes rapidly, only turning around as he heard the door slamming shut.

"Sir," The lad bent his head in Haytham's direction, his face tanned, young and comely. As he caught sight of Jane, he repeated the action, wordlessly. "A letter addressed to you, sir, from the fires of Bunker Hill, nonetheless." The courier said, his voice in a pleasant London accent.

"How urgent is it?" Haytham asked, accepting the letter the lad handed him. Jane's little much up still needed to be patched up - any liabilities to be sunk at sea.

Haytham looked at the seal. It was a standardised one - surely, this was a letter written in all haste if it came from a battlefield.

"Poignantly, sir," The lad panted, removing his tricorn and wiping away sweat from his forehead, "I've not had a still moment for a couple of days, save getting rest and food, but scarcely."

Haytham turned around, going inside, prying open the letter. "Come on in then."

"Gretel!" He called, peaking his head into the kitchens, "Get this poor boy something to drink."

"Right away, sir!" She rejoined, the rustling of cutlery and Gretel's own chiding of the servant girls still audible.

The lad stumbled inside, following Jane into the drawing room. He slouched into the couch, sighing to himself as Jane took care of his hat and coat. He recovered, beaming at Haytham. "Thank you, thank you, sir. You're kindness will not be forgotten."

Jane sat down in an armchair opposite the man, "And who might've sent you here?"

"Master Lee, Miss." He replied, running a hand through his blonde hair.

Haytham gave a pause, looking up from the halfway opened letter and to the boy again, and then thoughtfully recalled: "I thought I recognised you from somewhere."

The boy flushed with pride. "I d-didn't expect you to, sir, I've only seen you twice."

His name was Jack, Haytham remembered. It must've been a year since he had last seen him, and God, the boy had grown. If anything, Charles' had put him to good use. He'd been a thin thing before, now he was almost as broad as Haytham himself, his arms thick and hands large and calloused.

"Very well then," Haytham said as Gretel settling a tray of leftover breakfast in front of the boy, who stared at the plate ravenously, "Let's get on with it." He said, opening the letter, eyes meeting the all too familiar handwriting of Charles.

"Did you ride here all the way from Bunker Hill?" Jane inquired, baffled. "Through the frontier? That must've taken no less than five days, especially with how far from Boston the house is."

The boy shook his head, swallowing before replying, "Took me two days on horseback. Had to buy another horse on the second day though, my mare was too tired to go in the right pace. And it was mere luck I wasn't intercepted. I heard the patriots are taking captives left and right nowadays!"

"Yes," Haytham rose from his seat, both of the youngsters attentions returning to him. "Lucky indeed." He crumbled the letter in his hand. A dark look settled on his face, lip curling.

Jane blinked, forehead creasing in concern at his grim look. "What's wrong?"

"Pitcarin's dead." He said, and the boy chocked on his egg. "I'm riding to New York."

* * *

Banshee - an irish legend of a female spirit who's wailing warns of a death in a house.

Mein gott - my god.

Edith & Betty - if you've read Forsaken you probably recognise the name. If not, here we go: Edith was a maid in the Kenway household in London and was killed in the attack, which is why Haytham refrains from keeping too many servants staying in the house, as per this story. Betty is someone who Haytham had an extended scene with - one that you shouldn't dwell too much on if you plan on reading Forsaken anytime soon.

Man, Hickey's so much fun to write. And damn, I love pestering Jane. In the most loving, tortuous ways I can, of course.

There's a pop culture reference somewhere in here alright, although a bit obscure, if I may say so myself, but- erm, if you do get it; four for you Glen Coco, you go Glen Coco!

For the guest who asked about the timeframe of this, I hope this chapter gives you an idea, with Pitcarin's death and Bunker Hill and all. However, remember that this is also an AU where things happen a lot quicker than it did in, well... both the game and actual history (which, by the way, makes me recall that I need to add historical inaccuracies to my tag list on ao3), so things are progressing a lot quicker than it would in game.


End file.
